


At Her Feet, The Sun

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Frank Castle hardly remembers how to pray. Some gods might take offense to that.
He sings a discorded hallelujah with a torrent of bullets.
She is the only god willing to listen.





	At Her Feet, The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Some kind of terrible AU idea in which Karen is a deity and Frank's, well, just Frank. There's an appearance of my most beloved poem by Byron (She Walks In Beauty) in the typical blink-and-you-will-miss-it way.

Every heartbeat from the men down there is one too many. Every breath they take is one too many. Every drink is a waste on men like these. Every meal should be their last.

He has been creating makeshift gallows all around this city. He can't hang them. Doesn't want to hang them. Hanging is too kind. Just a piece of rope around their necks, pull them up high, and that's it? No. That's too easy.

Bullets are more painful.

He made a point of learning human anatomy once. Saving lives is a thing you do when you're a soldier. You need to know which arteries need to be pinched shut. Need to know how much of someone's limbs can be cut off to give them a shot at survival. Need to know which injuries deserve nothing but a prayer, some last words, and a single shot that cries out 'mercy!'. He can stitch himself back up. Sew his skin back together. Tend to all his bruises, though there are too many of those now and he's all but given up on helping that.

What nobody bothered to tell him is that this same knowledge could kill. He knows how to prolong suffering. He knows all the pressure points and places on a human body that would make grown men weep and beg for sweet release. He knows which ammo hurts the most. He prides himself on this.

If he's being honest with himself, which he does make a point of being, the fact that he can be proud of something like that makes him recoil from himself. This isn't how he wanted life to go. Isn't who he wanted to be.

_Water under the fucking bridge_ , he tells himself. The world made him how he is. Now, it can pay the price.

He clicks the magazine into the rifle softly. It's not like they can hear him from inside their small old bar, but he prefers to do things quietly. Respectfully. They won't know death's on their doorstep until they see the light. (At least, he assumes that that whole light-at-the-end-of-a-tunnel talk is valid. Too many people have come back raving about that after they stood on death's treshold and decided not to enter.) It's how he likes things to be: unexpected, confident in preparation, and lethal in execution.

He puts the rifle into position. Puts his cheek to it to ensure it's lined up perfectly with the bar's inhabitants. He's gotten faster at this. It takes him less time to reload. Less time to line up the next shot, and the next, and the next, and the final. He huffs out a breath. Rolls his shoulders back. Stretches his neck and his arms as far out as they can go. Releases. Gets into position.

One batch. _Maria._

Two batch. _Junior._

Penny and dime. _Lisa._

It's all the prayer he offers the wind and rooftop before he unleashes hell. He's gotten the jump on them. Those cronies only checked the streets and not the roofs. Too fucking bad. Their boss would have docked their pay and broken some bones over that. Only, said boss is now a little too busy keeping the world from seeing that he bleeds red just like everybody else.

He smiles against the gun. Counts off the others surrounding the piece of shit who leads them. He scoffs at the idea of ever following anybody so blindly. They really only have themselves to blame. Normal people don't torture others on someone else's say-so. Normal people don't arrange weapon trades that could kill indiscriminately. Normal people wouldn't cross his path.

He's quite sure there will be no survivors. He counts the bodies once, twice. Packs his things. Rifle is dismantled in a few exhales. He takes a sip of coffee. Swallows it despite the fact that it's freezing cold by now. It tastes like riverwater and sludge. Not his best cup.

He's gone from the rooftop before he even hears any sirens.

*

He's running extremely low on coffee. This is a problem. He has compartmentalised his life into necessities and luxuries. Coffee falls firmly into the former. He taps the side of his leg with one hand. This is a problem.

He wanders at least five blocks before he runs into a coffeejoint that looks mostly deserted. He knows the coffee in these places is touch-and-go at best. Yet, he'll take that over half of New York staring at his bruises. Killers can't be choosers.

There's no tiny ringing bell to announce his arrival when he opens the door. The place is dimly lit and seemingly empty, but there are noises coming out of the kitchen and the smell of reasonably fresh coffee lingers in the air. He steps inside and audibly shuts the door behind him. Looks around. Takes a seat against the wall near the far-end window. He can see every exit from here.

The bench he's seated on is more comfortable than he gave it credit for when he saw it. It's one of those old-school diner benches -- _careful, Frank, your age is showing_ , he thinks with a wry smile. The table's bare except for some condiments: he thanks his lucky stars this is not another one of those places that decided frilly lace tablecloths were the next hype. There's a comfort to its well-worn wooden floor that he cannot be bothered to really identify.

There's a small noise near the back entry that he presumes leads straight to the kitchen. It's almost like a little sigh. He wonders at it for a second.

That's before he lays eyes on _her_.

He tells himself she's just the waitress. That she's just another one of those young ladies working their ass off in New York until they're discovered and live a life of riches and stardom. He's seen that play out a hundred times before. Yet, she doesn't carry herself like one of those searching hopefuls. Her shoes click more assuredly on the wooden floor. She doesn't rush or hurry toward him like all the others do. She's dressed in midnight blue and a little-too-pristine apron. He almost thinks she's practicing for a part in a movie. No New York waitress in a coffee-filled hellhole dresses like that.

She's blonde in that sunshine way of hair so bright it could blind a man. She's tied some of it back, presumably to stop it from falling into whichever food she serves, but he can see it tumble down her back in waves. Her arms and legs are just a skosh too thin to him, though it strangely suits her frame the closer she gets to where he's sitting. Porcelain skin, delicate features, and eyes so blue he's convinced she begged the sky for a part of its colour.

Then she smiles, and Frank Castle knows he's in some new kind of danger.

"Can I get you anything today?" she asks him when she parks herself next to his table. "Food, drink, a newspaper?"

"Just a cup of coffee," he grunts at her. "Black. Make it strong." He pauses. Contemplates. Adds. "Please."

"Coming right up, sir," she tells him. There's a sing-song quality to her voice he can't quite put his finger on. Her gaze has dropped to his scraped knuckles. She doesn't seem to freak out in the least. "Guess you won't be needing that newspaper, huh."

"I'm good, thanks," he tells her.

Her smile is a little too radiant and her voice just a little too chipper to be believable as genuine. There's a silky edge to her tone that sounds like the one Maria used on him when she needed something real bad. He shakes his head as if to clear it. Tells himself he's just thinking about the wife because he's faced with another willowy blonde. He hopes that's all it is.

The room seems a little dimmer without its waitress in it. She walked away from him with all the grace of some wannabe ballerina. For a moment, he thinks of Lisa. She always wanted to move like that. Tried to stand on her tippy toes and twirl on the spot like some figurine from a music box. He doesn't think that his baby girl could've grown out to be anything like that waitress, though. There's something entirely wrong about that lady. His hand drops toward his thigh and squeezes an imaginary trigger. He huffs out a breath.

When she returns, he's far more on edge than when she left him. He watches her approach with a mug of what he assumes is coffee and a plate he definitely hasn't ordered. He observes the exits warily the closer she comes to his table. If she notices the change in him, she doesn't comment.

All she does is set the mug and plate in front of him. He stares down at it. The mug's filled with what looks to be the grueling kind of black coffee that will hopefully keep him awake for hours to come. The plate, on the other hand, is filled to the brim with French toast and other pleasantries.

"I didn't order this," he tells her.

"I know. Fights make even the deadliest of us hungry like a horse, though." Her tone is very carefully cultivated to sound airy and flippant. He narrows his eyes at her. "Eat up. It's on the house."

"Not hungry," he tells her. He doesn't mention that this plate looks like the most appetising thing he's had in weeks and that he'd wolf several of these down before having come close to having enough. "And I don't know what you mean about any fights."

"Sure, all right," she says. She doesn't reach for the plate. She takes a couple of steps toward the kitchen before she turns back to face him. "I'm sorry about your family."

_Wait._

He's up from the couch before he's even had a chance to think things through. He's grabbed the fork off the plate -- marveling for a second at her forethought to not hand him a knife -- and is hurtling toward her at the highest speed he can muster. "What do you know of my family?" he spits at her when he reaches her. The fork's two inches away from her throat and his other hand has clamped down hard on her arm. "Tell me!"

He knows something's amiss when she doesn't even blink at him or scream in fright or anything that regular damsels in distress do when there's distress to be had. Instead, what comes out of her mouth is the throatiest and most amused laugh he's ever heard in his life. There's something in her blue eyes that's not at all of this earth. He recoils from her on the inside of him, but doesn't let go of her. He needs answers.

"I was right," she breathes. Her mouth curves into a most incredulous smile for a moment as she gazes at him. There's a giddiness in her eyes that sparkles when they catch the light. He's dismayed to find that she's just as tall as he is. "You're perfect. One of my own.. It's been forever."

Her skin is so warm to the touch it's almost as if she's running on fever or an inner fire he dares not name. There's more light in the room now. Too much of it. The flare of the overhead lights turns almost blinding. He squints against the glare. Feels that damn fork bend away from her. He closes his eyes against the brightness. Curses everything under the sun in the privacy of his own mind.

He releases her.

Abruptly, the brightness that threatened to overwhelm him seems to dim and fade. When he next opens his eyes, the room around him is even darker. But she.. she _isn't_.

He's aware that he's staring. He can't seem to help that. She's luminous in the space before him. It's like the night sky opened up before him and all he can see in her hair and her eyes are countless, numerous stars. Golden light swivels and ripples through the stars haphazardly. The midnight blue of her dress becomes a canvas upon which the universe is painted.

He can't look away. Counts to three.

One batch. _Cloudless climes._

Two batch. _Starry skies._

Penny and dime. _And all that's best of dark and bright.._

"God." He swears. "Shit."

"It's been a while since anyone's been this irreverent toward me," she hums softly. There is a smile to her that's like the savage first light of morning after a night of liquor. He recognises it as fighter's relish a split second later. Recategorises the purr in her voice and the small tilt of her head. _Weapons._ "I quite like it. Now, come, Frank Castle," she breathes into the space between them, "eat and drink and hear me. Don't make me force my hand."

"Yes ma'am."

There is nothing else to offer but his acquiescence. He's not stupid enough to argue with a deity. Scoffs at himself for thinking he could get away with bloody murder without one of them stepping in. The stories he's heard of gods running interference with the world are as old as time. Once, in Kandahar, he saw a desert god call up a storm beyond imagining. It took forever to get the sand out from between his toes. Gods haven't run across him often, though. He's not the believer type.

He tells her that much, too.

"You don't believe in me? Guess I'm pretty damn lucky I don't need your faith to survive, huh." She's dialed the opulence down a few notches. Walks a few steps and slides onto the bench opposite the one he was sitting on. There's still starlight in her hair and he knows her to be the closest thing the universe has to immortal. He comes away from this realisation with the thought that he really needs that cup of coffee. She seems to think so, too. "Have a seat."

He sits down across from her and downs a huge gulp of coffee. "You here to put a stop to me?" he asks. "Tell me some sob stories about my family and hope I'll be a repentant little sinner? Hate to break it to you, ma'am, but I don't roll over and die that way." He scrunches up his nose. "I know you gods exist. I know you're real. But I don't believe in you. I don't believe in any of you. Not when you take good people away and let the scumbags live."

"Life is so in love with Death that She sends Him countless gifts," murmurs the woman, "in much the way that humans send each other flowers. Each is lovelier than the next. Your family perhaps loveliest of all." Her blue eyes bore into his own. He doesn't look away. His blood is boiling. "Death isn't my call, but my brother's. Life isn't mine to give. I'm just here for everything that comes before and after and inbetween."

"What _are_ you?"

"Can't you tell?" She sounds amused now as she leans back and observes him. He smells honey and Christmas cookies for a fleeting moment while she shifts on the couch. "I would think it obvious. You human men, you're oh-so-easy.. Offer up a nice blonde girl and they lose their minds. Not you, perhaps, but I saw you looking. Almost saw that shiver go down your spine." Her lips curve and her smile turns cruel. "Reminded you of the wife and daughter, huh?"

"Pestilence," he grunts at her. Refuses to rise to her bait. "That, or Seduction."

She laughs. This time, a shiver does run down his back. "That's one big difference, but hey.. I'm not too picky. Seduction's in my wheelhouse, sure." She bats her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly. Almost mocking toward herself. "You'd be surprised what people do for a piece of that. There's steel in that sugar, but they don't know until it's too late."

"Manipulation."

"On the fast track to becoming a deity, given the sorry state of this world, but _no_. I'm way older than that. Old as humanity itself, if we were to put a timeframe to my existence. Those were your three guesses, by the way."

"Sue me. I don't do this deity crap." He looks at the plate of toast. Contemplates eating it. "What are you then?" He huffs as he picks a piece of the toast up and looks at it. He's not sure what he expects to see. "Goddess of.. what, exactly? Too much fight in you to be something quiet. Too much lure in you to be something soft." He chews on the inside of his cheek. Weighs her. "Too much beauty to be something terrible."

"You think so?" She almost sounds like a little girl when she asks him that. Uncertain for a moment. Losing her feet. It's gone again before he can blink. Her eyes look him up and down. "All beautiful things are terrible. All is fair in love and war," she sing-songs, "and I'm a little bit of _both_." Her hair slips over her shoulder when she leans toward him. She whispers conspirationally. "More clever than any devil and, well, a lot of times more pretty too."

"I don't doubt it." He's given up contemplating French toast. He's shoveling it into his mouth without a care and humming contently while he eats. He's aware he's playing into her hands. She's not some blasted fairy, though, so he's quite sure her food's safe to take in. Not like he isn't already doomed anyway. "Love and war, huh? That's some polar opposite shit if I've ever heard of it, ma'am."

"Do you know how many people fight while they're in love? Love in the middle of a war? Go to war for whatever they love? Love whoever comes off a battlefield? Say they love their country and fight for it? Scream in rage when something they love is taken away? Even children do that. I'm the only duality in the world that makes a lick of sense. Everyone on this planet pays lip service to me or more." She sounds so satisfied with herself that he almost wants to punch her in the face for it. Yet, the smile on her face is warmer and more genuine this time. There's something soft in her features when she speaks, despite her pride and assurance. She gestures so deliberately that it's like her hands are doing a small dance in thin air. So, he refrains from doing harm. For now. "I'm not the easiest. Not the most present, either. Most of you follow my creeds without me getting tangled up in the middle. Sometimes, though, I take a.. what do I call it.. a special interest. In some people. It happens, but it's rare. I don't like to mingle."

He raises his eyebrow at her. Shovels the last piece of toast into his mouth. "So, what, you spend all your time in a coffeeshop waiting for some special interest to come along?" He knows her answer before she even says it. Decides to answer it for her. "I'm not the one you're looking for."

"Oh, you're not? You're the man burning and killing his way through all the bad guys in the city, aren't you? The man with warfare and vengeance in his mind? Back in the day, you paid me lip service while you were in the army. You burned brighter than most even then. Your loss has made you even more of that." She halts briefly. Sighs to herself. Looks away from him for a moment when she continues to speak. Her voice strangely trembles. "I meant what I said that I am sorry about your family. I know you loved them, believe me on that. You loved them so very deeply that you're willing to wage war on the world over losing them.. tell me, Frank Castle, how could I not want you?"

"What do you want of me?"

He barely trusts his voice. It comes out gravelly and wrong. Her tone toward him has softened so much that it feels like she may actually give a damn what happens next. Her thin hand is splayed out on the table next to his closed fist. He stares at it for a long time. Refuses to look at her. He can't possibly look at her when the universe's present behind her eyes and he finds himself strangely wanting. Tears burn behind his eyes. He's some rubber-faced clown and she's his cosmic joke.

"Companionship," she admits. " _You._ "

Before he has a chance to respond or ask for clarification, her hand vanishes off the table. He snaps his head up so fast he's probably going to suffer a day of neckache for it. Blinks against the bright light of a fully-functional coffeehouse.

She's gone.

*

He hums contently to himself. He ran across a new stash of supplies in some backlogged warehouse nobody gave two shits about. He's pretty damn sure none of these guns have ever been used for anything good. There's some big old irony in using them on the exact people that did bad with them.

"Wouldn't you say that's irony?" His voice drips with amusement when he turns to look at the rather young criminal he caught alongside the haul. "You standing watch over a bunch of guns and having them taken away by a guy with more guns? I think this is a perfect day, really."

The guy he caught can't reply, of course. He's a little too occupied with the fact that he's cuffed to a hook that is swinging ominously from the ceiling. It's taking him a lot of energy to stand as still as possible on his tiptoes. The added bonus of a gag helps keep the young man quiet, though. Guy'd been whimpering and begging up a storm earlier. Exhausting.

He puts the last of the weapons in a bag and zips it shut. He can't linger here. The area around the docks is always crawling with folks who're up to no good. If they catch wind of the fact that he's there, he's probably not easily getting out alive. Everybody wants a piece of the Punisher.

The nickname had hardly been his idea. Some press mosquitoes seemed convinced one couldn't kill people without bearing some kind of nickname, though, and he supposes it's better than having them refer to his family like they're some kind of public commodity. (They're not, they're not, they're his.) He's infamous now. He knows how to wield that presence.

He also knows the shit they write about him. Some scumbags had thought of using that against him. Thing is, when a man's fighting for the memory of his family.. it's not really a smart move to mock said family. A couple of bodies send a message. A pile of them is more like a neon sign saying "do not cross". Put them on the front steps of every newspaper office in the city and they'll shut the hell up about family, about the front, about Frank.

He's aware that his smile is just as savagely delighted as that of the deity he met over that plate of French toast some weeks ago, but he doesn't care about how it looks to others. He wants to beat that woman out of his skull with his fists. He's been halfway to distracted since his stupid ass went to get coffee and came face-to-face with her instead. He hates her for it. Hates how she's lodged herself in his brain.

One batch. _Steady._

Two batch. _Breathe._

Penny and dime. _Pick your ass up and go to war._

He exhales.

"Today's your lucky day, my friend," he announces to the criminal who now looks like he's soiled his pants. Hm. That smile really works on the fear scale. "You get to live another day. Now, do me a favour? Go home, find yourself a nice paying job, and get your act together. Once in a lifetime chance." He reaches over. Pets the boy's cheek. The guy looks like he's halfway to a heartattack. "You're welcome."

He shoulders one bag and carries the other. Leaves the man dangling from that hook. In time, he can get free. That, or he'll be freed by whoever put the guns in there in the first place. Frank finds he doesn't really care. Can't make it too easy for them, otherwise they'll never listen. He's not some half-measure designed to keep the city on its toes. He wants to subject it all to justice. Killing a scared kid ain't part of his brand just yet. He is plenty for them to fear without that move.

So he walks away and lets someone live. Big deal.

He scoffs as he puts the bags into his car. Contrary to popular belief, he knows exactly how deep someone's gone into a life of crime. When the point comes on which it's truly irredeemable. Kids like that, working their first low job for these scumbags, they're still the ones you can scare off. It's in the shift of their eyes and the uncertainty of their voice.

It's the only concession he's made to Maria.

She always had a 'saving people is worth your time'-thing going on. She liked the kids in the neighbourhood. Even the ones he picked out as rotten apples. She'd always smack his arm for it and call him a cynic. Said all everybody needed was a chance. He's done giving a lot of chances, but he knows when a kid wears a "do not touch" that is all about Maria.

He relents.

*

Everybody's got their off-days.

His are likely to get him killed someday.

This is one of those.

He grumbles angrily when he finds they've even taped his legs to the chair. Scowls at the feeling of that damn tape on his arms. He's gonna be wandering around with patches of bare skin once he's out of here. He wriggles and moves slightly. Winces. Wonderful. They've even taped over one of his wounds he'd recently (and fucking painstakingly) stitched up for himself. That's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch to cut loose from.

There's nothing covering his mouth. By some miracle, he's not gagged. He's not exactly relieved by that notion. Whatever the hell else is going on, he's quite sure that they want him to scream before whatever end they have devised. He almost scoffs at their longing to hear him lose it. He ain't that easy. Never was.

He takes other things into account. The air's too damp for a location above ground. He tastes metal in the air. Sees the blood on the walls -- dried, brown, caked in layers of artery sprays and vein floods. Even the pillars are full of scratches and more blood. It's like a slaughterhouse down here. Some kind of abattoir for New York's finest. The air's sick with longing for more of that. Its currency is that of lesser gods and devils.

Kandahar prepared him for this. It wasn't some underground place there. Not something to hide in a city and be ashamed of. No. Kandahar carried its sacrifices proudly in the open streets. He has hated the stench of mountain flowers covering rotten meat ever since. War creates its special kind of hell, or so they told him, but he doesn't believe war creates much of anything. Not because she can't, but because she doesn't have to for as long as humans draw breath.

He thinks humans are worse than any immortal being. Humanity deals with its gods in an endless plea for favours and desires granted. Some demand payment back. Blood, gold, flowers, food, sacrifice of some kind -- currencies as old as time. He's never paid any kind of price like that. Thinks that he wouldn't lay anything at her feet, not even if she asked.

The air's pregnant with old blood and moist soil. He inhales deeply. Exhales. Focus, he tells himself. In breath. Out breath. Those fucking rats. Some kind of outlaw all-American schtick. Caught him off his guard while he was trying to chug away the sight of a carrousel. He is damned if he's gonna bleed out for a bunch of cowboys and their backalley ideas of getting some god's favour. Ain't gonna happen.

"Got that right, sugar."

He can't exactly call himself surprised when the first thing he sees of her is a nebula of starlight and waves of blue. Is almost strangely relieved at hearing her voice, though he'd never admit that out loud. It's like a silky whisper in his ears, reassuring and coaxing, and he only now knows he's missed hearing it. He'll even forgive her for calling him 'sugar'.

"Come to steal me off the altar?" he asks her. There's wry amusement he can't conceal from his voice. "Or come to gloat?"

Her perfect face looks more than a touch annoyed as she observes him. "I don't even know what to do with you," she mutters. Shakes her head. The ponytail she's fashioned for herself bounces in the air and leaves glittery streaks of starlight trailing behind her. "Why do you always land yourself in trouble?"

"Habit of the job, ma'am."

Her snort of derision makes his comment worth it. She's leaning against one of the pillars with folded arms, looking him up and down. He honestly tries not to do the same. He doesn't want to stare. Her midnight blue suit's a little too skintight, a little too much curves and long legs, and he swore to all the heavens that he wouldn't think of her _that way_. He refocuses on her feet. Feet are safe, all things considered. She's standing barefoot in the muck and grime of his prison. He's surprised to find it clings to her skin as it does to his.

"As much fun as it is to watch you squirm, I have no desire to see you sacrificed to that backlogged mutt of a moneymaker." Her voice is languid and measured. "I told you I typically don't run interference, but well.." She takes a few steps toward him. He shifts his eyes to a point further away in the room. He hears a throaty laugh in reply to that. "You're still _mine_ , Mr Castle, and I don't take kindly to mine being taken. They will learn."

He feels her small hands tug on his restraints. He braces against the chair as she moves to pull them off his wound. The pain doesn't come. His eyes fly back to her, surprised. She shrugs in reply. Left the tape over the wound while removing the part of it that tied him to the chair. Smart. He flexes his arms once or twice. That's better. She's moved on to his legs and feet by now. He almost laughs over the irony of having a god at his feet.

The world's gone all topsy-turvy and he's liking every minute of it.

"There we are," she breathes as the last of his restraints falls away. "Now you're on more even ground. There are a lot of them, though, as I'm sure you've found out." She sounds almost amused to discover there's a small bump on his head. He tries not to inhale as she rises up and leans over him. "I'll be here. Stand with you and all that jazz. Can't have them getting the better of you."

Before he can ask her what on earth she thinks she could do -- and shouldn't she steer clear on account of gods not being allowed to meddle in the lives of mortals too damn much, anyway? -- the door on the far side of the room swings open. She's a flurry of starlight and clouds as she swirls away from him and rights herself partially in front of him. He chuckles to himself when he spots the surprise on the faces of the men who've just entered.

The door clicks shut.

Now, it's _her_ laughter that twinkles through the abattoir and mingles with his darker chuckle. It's the kind of laughter that could easily make his blood run cold if he was about to fight her. It's the laugh of someone who'll always, always win. He rises to his feet almost without thinking upon hearing it. Feels his mind set into the gear he needs to have. He grabs the chair with one hand. The other hand taps the side of his thigh rhythmically.

One batch. _Tap._

Two batch. _Breathe._

Penny and dime. _Kill._

There are about fifteen of them. Knives in their hands and pockets. He guesses it was a good thing he stole their guns. Guns ain't a fair fight unless they're in his hands, after all. Knives, he can handle.

She seems to think the same.

In hindsight, he can't tell which one of them moved first. Legend will have it be the goddess. Drunken bar stories will have it be the hero. He's fine with either. All that matters is staying alive.

He headbutts the first so hard that he's quite sure he's cracked the man's skull. Smashes down on hand, kicks the knife, presses down on shoulder. Twists the arm. Drops him in front of the second's feet. Watches a small stumble. Uses that momentum to twist, spin, punch. Crack. One bone. Crack. Other bone. Snap. Neck. He grunts as the man falls.

He readjusts his count when he sees her dance around the room with all the featherlight effort of a deity out to kill. She's full of tight smiles and relish in her eyes. He watches her take a knife. The streaks of red she leaves on the walls almost burn with her wrath. The fifth spills his guts at her feet. She leaves him with the knife lodged somewhere in the ruin of his belly. Her hands come away slick with blood.

A noise behind him alerts him to the seventh and eighth. He grimaces. His hand is at the eighth's throat and squeezing before the seventh even lays a finger on him. He's always hated crushing windpipes. Does it quick. Jams his fist into the seventh's eyes. He barely feels the ninth cut his back. He pivots away from the sneak attack. Punches and kicks the seventh some more. Down and out for the count.

He swirls around to face the ninth, but she's already there. The man now has three smiles. Ear to ear. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. Carved so deep he sees bone and tissue. There's a gargled noise he thinks is halfway to a scream before she buries the man's own knife in his throat. The shadows in the room cling to her and robe her in something not entirely of this earth. He can't tear his eyes off of her.

It's only through instinct that he notices ten, eleven, and twelve stalk closer to where he's standing. Inhales. Exhales. Aims. Ten down. Eleven about to regret bringing two knives to a fight. He buries them in the man's chest the second he gets his hands on them. Twelve seems to almost reconsider. Turns to run away. He smiles grimly at that. Banishes what he does to the coward into a special place he calls "warzone". No need to open that memory box again. He barely hears her cut down thirteen and fourteen.

The one remaining is having some second thoughts, too. Fifteen's lingered at the back and not made a single move against them. He's older than the others. Grayer of hair and skin. He's currently pounding on the door as though it'll show him mercy. Show him grace.

"Tell me, son of gold," he hears her whisper at his back, "how does one explain the taking of a son of blood? Of one of mine?"

The man swallows thickly. Fifteen pleads for something that can only be his life. "P-please, mistress. Goddess. Divine light." Frank scoffs to himself. The woman's all shadows and sharp sides of blades to him. There's no light in a slaughterhouse. Still, the man soldiers on. "We didn't know. D-didn't know he has your favour. The P-Punisher doesn't seem to pay respects as we."

"He doesn't have to pay me his respects the way you pay yours. His entire existence is a song in my honour."

Frank raises his eyebrow at that. Her voice is calm. She's not even out of breath in the slightest. Yet, it's her words that surprise him. Is that truly what he is to her? Does he _belong_ , even in the middle of his darkness so fierce he can't see any light at the end of the tunnel? She comes to stand next to him. Her hand burns on his arm.

"H-he's sworn to you?" Fifteen looks like he's already dead. "A trueborn?"

"Yes." Her words are a hiss. Her hand splays out loosely in a fluid motion. Her handpalm is slightly cupped. Her voice sing-songs like an echo in his ears. "All is fair in love and war."

Fifteen crumbles to the floor. There is a hole in the man's chest. He blinks in an attempt to take that in. Glances sideways. Almost recoils. Her hand is filled with the man's heart. Still beating.

She lets out a shuddering breath a moment later. The heart tumbles. Falls to the floor. A twinkle of light shatters the shroud of dark that threatened to overtake her. She's just herself again, small and fragile-looking in the carnage around her. Her blonde hair is streaked with so much red that it's like she dyed it very poorly. Her eyes glitter in the pale light.

His hand closes around her trembling one before he even knows what he's doing. "Easy," he breathes in the space between them. He drops his voice to reassure her. Of what, he does not know. Does not dare guess. "Sshh. I got you, ma'am." Then, he has to do this. Has to whisper it in her ear. "Thank you."

She shivers in response.

*

He's been watching her for what he thinks is close to an hour. He's propped up against the headboard of his current bed. His side hurts like a motherfucker. Some asshole had thought to burn him. She came to sit with him when even water hurt to handle on his torched skin. Her hands were cool and soothing. Now, she's stretched out at his feet in her familiar devil-may-care way.

It's been four months since the abattoir. He thinks he still sees streaks of red in her hair when the light catches it wrong. He's learned to read her with every visit she pays him. He thinks she always knew how to read him. He doesn't know what this is. Doesn't want to define it.

It's been more than a year since Maria.

He honestly didn't expect to outlive her this long.

Tears stopped pricking his eyes weeks ago. The dull ache in his chest is replaced with a god-to-honest heartbeat. He can look at photos without feeling like he wants to tear himself apart. There's still grief in every punch that lands. Heartache in every open wound. Some things don't change. The things you fight for stay.

"Dime for your thoughts," the golden lady offers with a smile. "What's on your mind?"

"Things to fight for," he tells her honestly. He knows better than to lie to her. "You'd call it love. Family. Togetherness. Hope." He gestures halfheartedly. "All that stuff you cherish. That's the fight right there."

Her blue eyes crinkle into a genuine smile. Her hand on his foot clenches briefly in a gesture he's come to recognise as good faith. The morning light shines through her hair as she leans forward. "I told you that the first time we met," she says in admonishment. "Took you long enough." He knows she doesn't mean it too seriously. Not when her eyes are this light and her face is aglow with joy. "I think she would like that, don't you think? You not losing sight of her?"

"She'd want me to move on." He knows this as deeply as he knows he can't ever do what she'd ask of him. "She'd say there's no reason to stay in grief."

"She's right." The goddess at his feet shrugs with all the aplomb of an immortal making sense of the human world. "Ain't going to argue with the natural course of things. You feel that too. Feel it lighten and constrict you in different ways that don't feel like your soul's being torn to shreds at the same time." She sits up on her knees abruptly. "I think you'll never lose her or your children, if that's what you fear. I won't let you forget about them for as long as you draw breath. I will carry them in my memory long after you've gone, together with all I love of you."

"That's a forever kind of deal, ma'am."

"Which isn't so bad for a man whose idea of prayer is a bullet to the head."

"Got me there."

She scoots over to sit closer to him. She's on his good side, careful to avoid the burn, and he observes her warily. Sometimes, he can't yet tell what she's thinking. Or what she's threatening to become for him.

"Do you remember what else I said to you?" Her voice is silky with a need he fathoms in the depth of his being. A shiver slowly runs from the top of his head toward the base of his spine. Electric currents run through his blood when he looks at her. "Of what I was looking for?"

"Me." His voice gets hoarser the closer she leans toward him. "Companionship, you called it. I still don't get it."

"Everybody needs somebody. All is fair.. no, balanced, even, in my dealings. You know this better than most." Her voice is so husky and low that he strains to hear her. "You know me better than most. You look at me and you see the universe reflected back at you." She brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. "Want to know what I see when I look at you?"

"Yes."

He reaches for her. Cups her cheek with the hand that wants to beat a steady drum of warfare. She sighs softly.

One batch. _Starlight._

Two batch. _Sunshine._

Penny and dime. _Her._

"I see the universe, too."

Her admission stills him. He frowns at her for a moment. His mind is filled to the brim with cannot. Yet, he knows this is real. Knows it in the way she'd never lie to him. She doesn't know how to cushion truth when she's calling it out. He loves her for that.

He loves her for a great many other things, too.

Her smile dips and curves before it greets his mouth. There is starlight in his hands threatening to spill forth his soul to her love.

*

_One batch._

He rattles an inhale.

_Two batch._

He can't come back from this.

_Penny._

Maria.

_Flip Coin._

Her.

_Dime._

Exhale. Close curtains.

*

The headlines do not do the man justice. This much she knows. She sits on the bench in front of the carrousel and watches people sell the story of how Love waged War on New York for a single man.

It's been a month since he died.

They're breaking his story only in the wake of her wrath.

The world is made anew with every death. This much she knows, too. She can still feel the weight of his head in her lap. See the stars leave his eyes.

The meaning of the photograph in her hand becomes almost too much to bear.

One batch.

_Maria._

Two batch.

_Junior._

Penny.

_Lisa._

Dime.

_Frank._


End file.
